232 THE PROCESSION OF SPRING 



always clasping tight a withered daffodil, and clasping 

 it she died. 



From the shallows of the pool over which the 

 willow hangs there comes a voice of spring. It is the 

 croak of frogs. There always seems something magical 

 in the way the frogs appear in the pool. Yesterday 

 not a frog was to be seen. There was the usual 

 sprinkling of beetles, effets, and water-spiders, but not 

 a single frog. This morning as soon as the sun began 

 to warm the water the croaking began on all sides. 

 The shallows are dotted with the brown heads of 

 many frogs. Make the slightest movement, and in- 

 stantly every head disappears. Presently from some 

 corner the croaking begins again in a tentative, inter- 

 mittent manner. It is not easy to detect the croaker, 

 because at first he keeps himself carefully submerged, 

 allowing only his nose and eyes to break the surface ; 

 reminding one of the pictures of the river-horse in 

 books upon African travel. But presently, grown 

 confident, he will raise his whole head, sending little 

 ripples circling away with every beat of his white dis- 

 tended throat. 



Frogs, I fancy, are fond of music. If on this first 

 day of their arrival you sit quietly on the bank and 

 whistle low and plaintively, they will all turn in your 



